A Palace Cracked
by Unmarked
Summary: It is when the world is but ash that she finally understands the cost of justice. Anders/F!Hawke *End Game Spoilers*


**Disclaimer: Bioware owns it, I just play in their world.**

_**Author's Note: Spoilers abound! This doesn't follow the game exactly word for word and act for act, but the idea refused to go away so…here it is. **_

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"_I love you. I've tried to hold back but...I can't go on without you knowing how I feel."_

"_Want a sandwich?"_

_He laughs and cups her face, brushing his thumb across the full curve of her lower lip. She has never felt this way before...men have always been meaningless tumbles, nothing more. She has never known love; doesn't know how to say that she knows it now. _

"_You will be an inspiration for generations of romantic poets."_

It is no lie that the world stands precariously on the precipice. She never dreamed that it would take more than a small push before the whole of Thedas crumbles. Change is necessary; on that point, she and Anders are in agreement. Mages, dangerous as their powers are, cannot continue to live in imprisonment without consequences. More would take the easy path of blood magic or deals with Fade spirits and demons. Their complacency as a whole could never last and when they rise up, the Templars will never be able to stop them. It will be war, brutal and without mercy. Up until this moment, diplomacy and debate still seemed a possibility.

A peaceful resolution scatters to the wind before her very eyes and Kirkwall's Chantry along with it. Burning embers rain down from a blood red sky, streaking everything with gray ash.

Somewhere deep inside, buried in a place she doesn't want to acknowledge, Marian knows. Anders has done what he'd promised to do all along and she helped him. In the midst of horror and grief, she turns to him, her crystalline blue eyes shining more brightly than ever with gathering tears.

"What have you _done_?"

"There can be no half-measures. No peace. This is _justice_, for all mages!"

He isn't speaking to her, isn't looking into her eyes to justify the destruction before them. When the Templars attack on Meredith's order, Marian's side is chosen. It is reflex that guides her sword; an instinct to protect that which she loves above all else. She won't allow them to be the force that takes his life, no matter what he's done. The night is wrought with enough betrayal and though he must pay, it will not be Meredith that settles the debt.

Orsino leaves soon after, entrusting the fate of Anders to her hands. Varric, for once, is silent when she approaches. Merrill fidgets nervously. Aveline meets Hawke's eyes grimly and claps a steady hand on her pauldroned shoulder.

"There is no other way, Marian. Do it quickly; he needn't suffer."

Marian wants to laugh as she recalls a time long ago that found her saying something similar to Aveline. She never stopped to think that the Maker would make her pay for saying such a thing. It is a night for justice all around.

Varric nods in agreement. Merrill turns to look the other way, unwilling to bear witness.

When she reaches Anders, she drops to her knees and buries her face in the crook of his neck, fingers digging into the feathered pauldrons on his shoulders in desperation. Her breath comes in quick gasps as hot tears sting in her eyes, trying with all her might to pretend that this is just another crisis that will end with both of them safely home. How can it be that he will never again sit by the fire, smiling fiendishly as he tortures her with horribly endearing serenades that make even the dog wail in misery?

She sobs in earnest for all they have lost, taking the last moment of comfort in his arms that she will ever have. His fingers thread into the soft black hair at the nape of her neck but he doesn't offer words of comfort; not this time. He knows as well as she does what must come next and there is no kindness in pretending otherwise.

"I love you."

It is a pitiful whisper, full of shame for not having said it sooner. If only she had...if only she could have said it again and again, perhaps her hand would not be straying from the feel of him to grip cold, unforgiving steel. She would not be pressing her lips to his for the last time. She would not be plunging the knife into his back, watching in grief as the light fades from his luminous brown eyes. She might have been able to stop him, save him.

It is when the world is but ash that she finally understands the cost of justice.


End file.
